Truth or Truth
by gschelt
Summary: "Because, right at the root of everything you're feeling the vertigo of unease about, is the way you feel about her, the girl who gives you that look and then turns back to playing Truth or Truth." Liley. Rated for alcohol and language. Oneshot.


_**Author's Note:** My first Liley, you guys! I had to. Anywho, I think I'm addicted to the second person, and I think I went overboard on the angst. Oh well, fluff can shove it. __And I decided to be cool and write Miley's POV... cause let's admit it, no one does that. :O__  
Let me know what you think, I'm nervous because I've been reading Liley for a long time now but I've never wrote it. _  
_I got the idea for this cause whenever me and my friends party we always end up playing Truth or Truth before we pass out. It's a good time. :)_  
_I own nothing._

* * *

You don't do parties as often as one would think someone like you would do parties. You're Hannah fucking Montana for fuck's sake (dad would say language, Bud, but he's not here now and his voice reprimanding everything else fades away). You're seventeen years old, and you're secretly the world's biggest teen pop star, but you're not much of a partier. Never got the chance? Not really. You just lacked the motivation to go, and never thought shots and hangovers looked especially fun.

But well, so much for that. You're doing it now, and it's not _too_ bad. Might as well start with a new kind of letting loose, a kind that's not dancing around your Hannah closet in your underwear, belting out Lady Gaga. Though that might be your favorite method, some new inkling in your guts tells you maybe this will be fun and this will be what you want (need?). It's not so much that you've been bored; you just have something in you that needs something. It's hard to explain, so you quit trying to figure it out and get ready to feel something different.

You're not at some big, classy Hollywood bash now; you're doing your partying as Miley Stewart tonight, going low-key in just jeans and a black babydoll tee in a classmate's basement. It feels good to be casual, and it feels good to be drinking something tame and fruity (you're a baby when it comes to alcohol, that you do know from your limited experience and for some dumb reason it embarrasses you), and it feels good that Lilly's here with you for all of it. As usual. You don't want to say she's your security blanket, because that would also be embarrassing if that fact were true (it might be), but having her along with you is always like being whole. It's like you're not fully dressed until she's there; but no, she's not an accessory, she's your best friend.

Lilly, next to you (of course) on the scratchy couch, looks totally comfortable, which you try to copy. She seems more relieved than you to be in what you'd call _pedestrian_ clothes; always was and has been a tomboy, after all, and she's much more at ease in a pair of boyfriend jeans and a plaid button-up, hair loose and probably still salty from surfing during the daytime. This is finally her element, laughing with five or so people she doesn't know very well in a basement, as opposed to the glittery soirees you have to drag her to sometimes in wigs. But she doesn't do parties with alcohol either, since the two of you go everywhere together and share pretty much the same feelings on everything (isn't that presumptuous of you to think?). She's just not as high-strung as you, and maybe is much readier to cut loose for a little while than you are. Though you can't imagine why that is, since she hasn't a care in the world (isn't that presumptuous of you to think?).

But since Lilly is no more of a partier than you are, why isn't she clinging to you like you want to cling to her? You're out of your element, just slightly, so why isn't she too? It's not like you want to be holding hands for comfort or anything, but at least you could be a _little_ more sewn together. It would make you feel better, clearer. Instead, Lilly's attention is on anyone but you. She doesn't ignore you, so maybe you're being a _little_ dramatic, but her laughter and contribution in conversation are a little too independent for your liking and make you feel borderline antisocial in comparison. All put together, you feel just a little insecure.

If you didn't know any better, you'd say that Lilly is doing this, this _thing_, on purpose. You know why you'd want to detach from her (but no, don't think about that now, take that second drink offered to you and forget it), but you can't imagine why she'd want to detach from you. Sometimes you hate her for being unreadable. Especially when you almost get to the point to thinking you _can_ read her, but well, that's foolish, you tell yourself. You doubt anyone would ever guess that Hannah Montana is a cynical glass-is-half-empty kind of girl, sometimes.

Because, right at the root of everything you're feeling the vertigo of unease about (right at the bottom of this red plastic cup, there it is, as your head tips back like a see-saw and for once tonight Lilly actually _looks_ at you, wary of how fast you've tipped this one back) is the way you feel about her, the girl who gives you that look and then turns back to playing Truth or Truth. It has something to do with Lilly, why you feel like this, and what _this_ is you can't even explain because it's uneasy but not terrible, it's just so prickling (like needles) that you want to numb it. If drinking makes it help, then good. Your aim tonight, subconsciously, is to find out if it does.

Lilly won't give you as much attention tonight as you would like. That raises so many questions, the top two being: Why won't she? And why do you care as much as you do?

"Miley, truth or truth?" a boy named Cody calls over to you. At first you're about to ask what happened to Dare, since you would usually choose it seeing as how you've got a lot to hide, but you realize that this party's low key and no one is really into getting rowdy.

"Truth," you answer with a grin, settling into the chair as though you need to brace yourself to answer the question. It's partly a reflex, a reflex to busy yourself and pretend you don't feel Lilly's eyes on you, pretend you don't care that she is only just now showing interest in your presence. It makes you feel so selfish to recognize that you have to be so greedy with her, that you need to have her all to yourself all the time. Why can't you be okay with her interacting with other people? There's a flash of dark poison in your gut, where you kind of hate yourself for it (and something else, but still you're not going to think about that, you're going to block it out like you have been for months now and just play this stupid game).

Dad wouldn't be too keen on this, either. Not the drinking part or the self-deprecation part, but the part you won't give a name, even in your own head. That's where he's getting up and walking away with hard eyes. But that will never happen, because you won't let it, and besides, you don't even know what _it_ is.

Just keep playing this game, looking anywhere but at Lilly, and forcing yourself to turn a one-eighty and want to detach from her the way she's detached from you.

What comes next won't help you at all.

"So," Cody begins devilishly. "Miley, have you ever kissed a girl?"

It's not even that outlandish of a question, since you're all teenagers after all and the one doing the asking right now is a _boy_, so you're not caught off guard as badly as you could have been. Still, you can't help the blush that creeps up your cheeks, and dearly hope you can play it off to heat or prudishness. Either would be better than the truth.

"Nope," you answer honestly, fidgeting and leaving your face blank and lax. The others raise their eyebrows at your skeptically, as a challenge, but it's good-natured and they really do believe you. You ask Rachel something about the college freshman she was rumored to have a thing with last year, and feel kind of catty and guilty dredging it up, but she laughs as she sets it straight so you don't feel bad anymore. A few more questions shoot across the circle about people's love and sex lives, and then it's Lilly's turn to get grilled. She sits next to you, relaxed and stiff at the same time, readying for whatever it is she'll be asked. The bored expression seems forced. You kind of hate this party and everything about it, for doing whatever it's done to your relationship with Lilly, but it might have just been coincidental timing. As usual, you don't want to think about it, or much of anything. By now you're on your fifth drink, and it's getting easier.

"Sooooooooo, Lillian," a friend of yours named Jessica begins, grinning slyly, after a solid sluggish two minutes of trying to think of something. Lilly laughs throatily and flips her off, tossing her hair and waiting for the question. You've all long since foregone the pretense of asking Truth or Truth.

"Have you ever had a boyfriend?" she asks, genuinely curious, her eyes narrowed. Lilly tosses her hair again, face blank.

"Um, no," she answers casually, like it's no big deal. But the energy in the basement has changed, because she hasn't laughed this one off like Rachel did, and you can tell the others think it's weird that she hasn't ever had a boyfriend. You also realize that neither you nor Lilly really know any of these kids very well at all. This change in energy is darker, and you immediately dislike it.

The boy named Cody, the one who asked you your question, leans forward in his seat. "Are you a lesbian?" he asks bluntly, eyes shining.

Your throat leaps in outrage, and something else you can't put your finger on, and before Lilly can say anything you interject, "That's not fucking fair, that's two questions."

And, you can hardly register shock at this, it's you that Lilly turns to and fixes with an angry glare. "Shut up, Miley," she says with a scowl, heating creeping up her cheeks.

"But Lilly-" you protest, confused because you were only trying to defend her (is it really _her_ you're trying to defend?).

"Seriously," she says, and she's _still_ trying to look totally nonchalant and it's like you don't know her anymore. She turns back to Cody. "No, I'm not."

"You sure?" a boy named Dan pipes up, tilting back on his chair and smirking challengingly. Everyone watches Lilly expectantly.

"Yeah, I'm sure." Her face betrays no emotion, but you know that's because she doesn't want it to. At least, you're pretty sure. The alcohol is doing things to your judgment, and your perception, and maybe it's actually not to blame for your inability to read Lilly right now. Then again, maybe you still can read her fucking perfectly, in a way, because she's your best friend after all even though this night is off in some way and is all wrong and is ruining the two of you.

Why is it all so sudden?

It's a couple rounds of the game later when Lilly excuses herself. She mentions something vague about her stomach being upset, and nimbly picks her way out of her seat and upstairs. You sit there for a minute or so, then worry that maybe she's sick up there. You can't figure her out tonight, but still in the back of your mind you love her to death (shut up shut up shut _up_), and maybe the least you can do is hold her hair back for her.

You check the upstairs bathroom but she's not there; there aren't any lights on in any bedrooms or anything. "Lilly?" you call out, wondering where she went. There's no answer. As a last ditch option you poke your head out the front door onto the porch. "Lilly?"

And there she is, leaning against the porch railing, looking out into the glistening black street like she's pissed off at it. She doesn't look at you. She just kicks her sneakered foot at the wooden railing and says, "Yeah?"

"Are you okay?" you ask, taking a step forward, still half-enveloped by the screen door.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Oh," you reply, unsure of what to do now because you were concerned and not only was there nothing to be concerned about, the object of your concern doesn't even seem to care (about you either, you would think, and caring too much about how much Lilly cares surges back up like bile so quick and so strong all of a sudden). "Good, because I thought you might be throwing up or something and I was worried-"

"I just wanted some fresh air," she says curtly, shrugging. "I'm fine." She looks at you, finally, like finally doing so will satisfy you enough that you'll leave her alone. You wonder why she's so pissed off right now; not only is she pissed off, but she seems to be specifically pissed at _you_.

"Lilly…" you begin tentatively, coming forward a bit more.

"What?" she says, a bit too sharply to mean that _nothing's_ going on, and well, that's about the last straw.

You go up to Lilly and get in her face. "What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?" you ask angrily, because it's easier than asking yourself that same question, and if everything that's fucking you up tonight (lately, over the past half a year or so) can be resolved with something going on with Lilly that she's not telling you, then you're good. Then you don't have to worry about anything wrong with _you_ that you can't (won't) explain or recognize, something that would make dad hate you and make your relationship with Lilly, well… something like this.

"Nothing!" she seethes, and tries to take a step back, but you grab her arm and pull her back around to face you.

"Then why did you fucking snap on me back there?" you barrel on, fingers still tight around her forearm, and there's something in her eyes that makes you want to stop (and run) but it just makes you keep talking. "I was just trying to help you, Lil, I was sticking up for you. And you're just being fucking, I don't know, like _this_. And don't tell me it isn't nothing because bull_shit_ it's nothing, you've been acting weird all night."

"Did it occur to you," Lilly says, her face twisted in ugly anger and the beginnings of that redness slowly flushing her face again, "what it looked like back there? That getting offended at that fucking question and trying to fucking dodge it would make me look like I was a fucking lesbian?" She wrenches out of your grasp (because your fingers have gone a little bit limp) and begins to walk down the porch steps and onto the sidewalk, away from you. You don't know where she thinks she's going to go.

You mean to ask her again why she's been acting weird, or maybe apologize for defending her in that game of Truth or Truth (just to make her come back), but you realize that neither would do or explain anything (though that's no reason to stop you from saying either, you've been full of pointless words and actions lately). Instead, you blurt out (you have _no_ fucking idea why), in the softest audible voice Lilly can hear as she walks away, "Are you?"

She twists her head over her shoulder at you, but doesn't stop walking. "Fuck you," she spits.

And now, now you're on autopilot and unable to process and obsess and analyze the meaning of _why_ she reacted that way, and you'd like to think that's because of the alcohol, but you've been sobering up ever since you walked outside and you think, so has Lilly. You can't blame any of your actions on the booze, you can only blame it on your hatred of where obsessing and overanalyzing has got you. So you run after Lilly.

"Lilly," you call after her, "Lilly, wait."

When you catch up, at the end of the driveway, you have to grab her again to make her stop and face you. When you do whirl her around, her eyes are angrier than you've ever seen them aimed towards you. It's like she's someone else, that's how foreign it is. And still, deep down, you know there's something more to it with her, and your heart aches and yearns to know what's wrong so you can fix her. If only she would let you. If only doing that would fix _every_thing; would it?

"What's wrong with being a lesbian?" you ask, and your voice is softer than you'd intended, and your voice cracks more than you'd intended (you'd intended _not at all_).

"I'm not," she insists (again), as though the words that left your mouth were actually an accusation. And the wounded, fearful, angry cast of her eyes hits you like a ton of bricks.

You don't mean to do what you do next, but then again you don't mean to do a lot of things that you've done tonight, and the uneasy feeling you've had all evening has broken like when a CD skips from a quiet part of one song to an extremely loud part of another song; and just like _that_, it almost literally makes you jump, because you finally found that drinking tonight didn't help, and trying to detach from Lilly, or being detached from her at _all_, only made things worse, and now all you can really do now is shatter.

"Fuck you, Lilly," you whisper angrily, out of nowhere (nowhere except for the break from unease to recognition of truth), "I am." And with hot, unwelcome tears in your eyes you stand, trembling for a second, and then turn on your heel and stalk down the sidewalk.

Now it's Lilly who's chasing after you, running after you following a minute or so of stunned silence that you can feel prickling your neck. "Miley," she shouts, "Miley!" But you don't want to turn around and face her, and you almost wish that the concrete will open wide and swallow her up so you don't have to look in her eyes; somehow you don't even want her to say that it's okay, if maybe that's what she might be going to say, because now that you've recognized the fact that you're gay and said it aloud, both at the exact same time, things really can't be okay.

Truth? Fuck unease, you're fucking scared to death.

"Miley!" Her voice is close, and then you feel her hand clamp down on your shoulder. "Goddamn it, Miley," she mutters, and turns you around forcefully, and before you know it her lips are on yours.

The sensation, warm and sweet like you knew she would taste (did you really wonder about it?) and sour with the bite of alcohol, shuts your brain off completely. So you just stand there, in shock, as Lilly presses both of her hands to the side of your face like it'll keep you from running away again. She mashes her lips against yours hard, almost angrily, but the feel of it is still smooth and wet and electric, like touching your tongue to a nine volt battery like Jackson had dared you to do once when you were seven. Once it starts, you realize that you've wanted to kiss Lilly for months now but didn't know how to vocalize or visualize it in your head; that's probably why you had so much building up inside you that you lost her, somehow. Fear, really, of having feelings for a girl, and having that girl be straight, and having that girl do things sometimes that made you think (and shoot down for your heart's sake) that she wasn't straight, and having that girl be your best friend. Everything floods in on you all at once, but the thing that surfaces with the most strength is that you love the feeling of Lilly kissing you, no matter how illogical the circumstances may be, and you never want her to stop.

She does stop, though. With her hands still on your face, she pulls back three inches and fixes you with a deep stare.

"I don't know what to do," she says in a low voice, a lost and pleading note to it that you wouldn't have caught if you didn't know her (and love her?) better than anyone else in the world.

"Are you gay, Lilly?" you whisper, almost afraid of the answer. Afraid that if attempting to fix Lilly doesn't fix _every_thing, then you're fucked.

She looks down at the ground, forehead bumping yours, and bites her lip. "Yeah," she says hoarsely, almost inaudibly, "I think so. But fuck, Miley, I'm so fucking scared."

"Would it help," you begin, choking on the lump in your throat that takes a moment to force down, "if I told you that I think I'm in love with you?"

Lilly closes her eyes and lets her head fall to one side. "This is so much all at once," she sighs, but when she opens her eyes again they fall to rest on your lips. And she presses in to kiss you again, like that will help her solve everything.

"Lilly," you murmur when the two of you finally pull away, a breeze (and something else) scattering goosebumps up and down your bare arms. "I'm scared too. I'm scared as fuck. But I think we can do this whole gay thing together."

She's silent for a moment, a long moment that skips with the pulse of your pounding heart and her trembling skin, and then slowly, she nods. "Yeah," she rasps, "okay."

And she snakes her arm around your shoulder, and the two of you start to make your way back up the street and back to the house.

"But really," Lilly says after a few seconds, head tilted up to the stars and her long stretching (you can finally admit that you like the way that looks, and want to touch it), "What are the fucking chances, you know?"

She's right, you know, about the crazy odds. It's uncanny all right, but it might, just _might_ end up perfect, and that's the truth.


End file.
